


Warmth

by HolyCatsAndRabbits



Series: Dannye's Zine Fics [14]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Time (Good Omens), Christmas, Criminal Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Knitting, Librarian Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Resolved Pining, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, getting stuck in a hotel with your crush during a winter storm, serious pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28988571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyCatsAndRabbits/pseuds/HolyCatsAndRabbits
Summary: The excitement of spending a day traveling with Crowley had turned to deep embarrassment. Rather than a flight followed by a late dinner somewhere and then a night apart, Aziraphale was cold, wet, hungry, and injured, in the wrong city, and facing a night sharing a room with his secret crush in which there was only one bed. And— Aziraphale looked down at what he was holding. Flannel pajamas, tartan ones. He was going to have to go back out there and face the ever-elegant Crowley in his night clothes.Written for theWinter Wonderland ZineI'd never written a "There was only one bed" fic and I had so much fun with this. I hope you all enjoy it!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Dannye's Zine Fics [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067741
Comments: 173
Kudos: 315
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Winter Wonderland Zine





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to @ southdownsraph for modding the zine and answering my questions about travel in the UK! All remaining mistakes in the fic are my own.

Aziraphale Fell was saying goodbye to a date. This had become a common thing for him, the awkward parting tinged with disappointment, trying to make it clear that he did not wish for an extension of the evening at his home, nor a second date, but kindly. Aziraphale was a kind person. He was gentle, usually pleasant, no doubt quite stuffy, and terribly, terribly starved for romance, which was why he kept going on first dates. But unfortunately, he could never make it to a second date with any of the nice, normal men that he went out with, and that was because Aziraphale was already quite hopelessly in love with someone else, who could not really be described as either normal or nice.

It wasn’t the best of solutions, the constant dating. But Aziraphale held out hope that someday, one of his dates might turn out to be half as devilishly handsome as the man Aziraphale loved, maybe nearly as witty, almost as smooth and suave— but of course, none of them could ever hope to be as devastatingly sexy or as all-around wonderful as Anthony J. Crowley, Aziraphale’s best friend, secret crush, and true love.

Aziraphale was a librarian. The town he lived in was small, but the library was lovely, and there were enough books of love poetry and raunchy romance novels in the collection for Aziraphale to understand what love felt like. He’d never been in love before, but it hadn’t taken long after Anthony J. Crowley had started visiting their little coastal village for Aziraphale to fall for him. 

So Aziraphale smiled now at Jeff (was it Jeff? probably, a blond man in a blue jumper) and then he walked back to his little white car alone. The air was cold— it was November, and the wind off of the sea was biting. And it always felt colder when there was no one else with you, no one to turn up your collar or hurry your steps or join you in cursing the weather. Aziraphale pulled on the pair of gloves he kept in his car before starting home. 

If it had just been Aziraphale’s loneliness, a physical itch to scratch, he could have taken men home with him. But Aziraphale just couldn’t quite imagine himself with anyone but Crowley. (And thus that was how these evenings usually ended, with Aziraphale alone, seeing to himself while _imagining_ something that was never going to happen.)

When he turned onto his street a few moments later, Aziraphale was surprised to see a large, very elegant black car parked outside his house. It glowed darkly in the street light, and spotlighted leaning against the boot was the car’s match in every way— the tall, dark, and dashing figure of Anthony J. Crowley.

Aziraphale’s heart began to race, as it always did, as he watched Crowley saunter over. (The man could not simply _walk,_ he had to swing his hips about with every step.)

“Evening, angel,” Crowley said with a grin, resting his thigh against Aziraphale’s door. “Late night at the library?” His figure was shadowed here away from the light, but Aziraphale could make out the slender silhouette of him, in a tightly fitted black coat with the collar turned up against the wind, and a few strands of flame-red hair dancing around it.

Aziraphale was actually dressed up at the moment, because of the date. He wore nice khaki trousers, a white button-up, and a bowtie of a blue that matched his eyes, although it was all hidden now beneath his coat. But of course, that didn’t matter. Aziraphale had no illusions about Crowley finding him attractive no matter what he wore. He gave Crowley what he hoped was a brave smile as he climbed out. “Oh, no, I was just, um, out.”

But Crowley was far too clever to miss what Aziraphale wasn’t saying. “You went on another date?” he asked, and there was just the hint of an edge to his voice. “Did it not go well?”

Aziraphale busied himself with locking his car. “It was fine. Just— needed to end.”

Beside him, Crowley suddenly stood up straight, which was something he did not do often, and it made him loom over Aziraphale rather dramatically. “Did he do something?” Crowley demanded. “Did he hurt you?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “No, of course not. We just didn’t hit it off.” _As always._

Crowley seemed mostly satisfied with that, and he went back to slouching (elegantly). 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked. “I didn’t think you’d be in town today.”

Crowley shrugged. “Had a free evening. Thought I’d drop in, see if you wanted to get dessert at the cafe. Lemon pie tonight, right? Friday?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale felt himself melt a little. “Yes, lemon today. That sounds wonderful, my dear.”

Crowley smiled— just a quirk up of one side of his mouth— but it made him look both kind and rakish rolled together. “All right, then,” he said, waving a hand toward the Bentley. “We can make an evening of it.”

Crowley was from London, and honestly, he did not fit in terribly well in this small town in his flashy black clothes and expensive car. But people were mostly used to him by now. Crowley was often pleasant to the residents of Aziraphale’s town, and it was only sometimes that Aziraphale could see the little spark of fear in their eyes when they looked at him.

It wasn’t that Crowley was a violent man, not at all. Crowley would slow or even stop the Bentley if necessary to avoid hitting a squirrel in the street. He liked to chat with children, and dogs uniformly loved him. Crowley never even complained about getting light-colored fur clinging to his dark clothes.

But Crowley went back and forth from London to the coastal towns for one specific reason, and it was not a terribly nice one. Crowley made it _sound_ nice, and quite vague— _Oh, I just have to drop in on an old friend, talk business—_ but Crowley didn’t have old friends in the area. What he had were associates and accomplices. Crowley worked for the London Mob.

Aziraphale had figured this out rather quickly. It had taken a little longer to discern what kind of mob activity Crowley got up to. Aziraphale had ruled out murder right off the bat, as well as guns and drugs. The most likely answer was that Crowley moved stolen goods in and out of London and had fences in small towns along the coast. But it wasn’t that activity exactly that frightened people. It was the Mob association itself, and Crowley absolutely wanted everyone to notice it. That was the reason that he dressed the way he did and drove the fancy car. It was a sign to his associates and the residents of the town that Crowley was not someone to mess with.

But Aziraphale knew that there was more to Crowley than all of that. Tasked with visiting the coast, Crowley did not simply conduct business and then hurry back to London. Instead, he sampled the small town cafes. He took walks by the ocean. And he wandered into the library.

Aziraphale had just about tripped over his feet the first time Crowley had come in, sauntering through the stacks in skin-tight black jeans, sunglasses pushed up to tangle in fire-red hair. Aziraphale had found himself looking into eyes that were an almost otherworldly golden color, and despite having a university degree in English, Aziraphale had completely forgotten how to speak.

An hour later, Crowley had somehow charmed the librarian into giving him a library card when he was not a resident— Aziraphale still wasn’t sure how he’d managed that— and he asked for book recommendations. Aziraphale started with spy novels, just based on the clothing the man wore. Crowley had looked amused but had taken a few. He stopped by again the week after (once more completely flustering Aziraphale), and this time Aziraphale recommended historical fiction. After that it was biographies, then fantasy, and so on.

If you looked at it from the outside, it was an unlikely friendship. Even Crowley thought so. He’d taken to calling Aziraphale “angel,” because Aziraphale was pleasant to everyone and as the town librarian, he was involved in many community outreach programs— and because they both knew that Crowley was rather more demonic than the average person. But friends they were. They had started meeting outside of the library within a month of knowing each other, and now they shared meals at cafes, walks on the beach, and television at Aziraphale’s cottage. 

But after it had been long enough that Aziraphale had fallen completely and hopelessly in love with the casually dangerous man in black, he suggested that Crowley move on to sampling the library’s collection of romantic poetry. And Crowley, for the first time, refused. Love, he’d said simply, was not worth the trouble.

Aziraphale had stared at Crowley over a glass of red wine and had managed to ask, “You don’t want to ever fall in love?”

Crowley shook his head, looking darkly into his own glass. “Love only makes you want things you can’t have. There’s no use in it.”

Aziraphale looked at the man who made his living by helping himself to things he was not supposed to have, and asked, “Why can’t you have them?”

“Because that’s what love is,” Crowley said softly. “Wanting some ideal that will never happen. People get stuck dreaming of a perfect life with a perfect person, but reality can never measure up. Easier to trash the whole thing.”

Aziraphale should have seen this disappointment coming, of course. Even if Crowley wished for love, there was no way a London man like him was going to fall for a boring small-town librarian, never mind a member of the Mob loving an _angel._ (It should probably also have been the case that an angel could not have fallen in love with a criminal, but clearly Aziraphale’s heart had refused that message on arrival.) Aziraphale had tried to argue, but the words had fallen flat. Crowley had changed the subject, and they’d never spoken of love again.

The following month, Aziraphale had started on his long string of first dates. When Crowley had caught onto this, he’d not seemed pleased. But Aziraphale was determined. Even if Crowley disapproved, no doubt thinking Aziraphale was a fool for trying it, Aziraphale believed in love, in the fact that love could overcome reality, that love didn’t have to be perfect to feel perfect. But so far, it seemed that Crowley had been right. Aziraphale had found only disappointment.

Three years had now gone by since they’d met. They were best friends, and Aziraphale treasured that. Crowley enjoyed his company, that was clear, and was always very solicitous about it, ever mindful of Aziraphale’s comfort and happiness. Any malevolence that might lurk in Crowley’s character was never turned inward at Aziraphale, but always outward, tending to manifest as a strong protective instinct. Aziraphale was not sure what it was that Crowley felt he needed to protect Aziraphale from, but Crowley assumed this attitude with everyone from Aziraphale’s ill-fated dates to the checker at the grocery store. It was amusing, and it was lovely, but Aziraphale did have to always remind himself that it was _not_ a romantic gesture.

There was one thing, though, that was absolutely not nice about Crowley, one thing that Aziraphale would very much change if he could. In order to make the 75 mile trip from London to this little town less unpleasant, Crowley drove his fancy car very quickly when out in the country. (Before Aziraphale had realized exactly what kind of connections Crowley had, he had wondered aloud about the number of traffic tickets Crowley must have racked up. Crowley had made some sort of awkward noise and changed the subject.) The problem was, Crowley also thought that kind of driving was suited to in-town roads. Aziraphale had never quite gotten used to Crowley’s behavior behind the wheel, so tonight, as usual, he simply closed his eyes after he climbed into the Bentley, and opened them again when they got to the cafe.

The place was fairly crowded, as it was a Friday night, but Aziraphale and Crowley found an empty spot. Crowley stuck out as much as ever, sitting in a blue plastic booth with his dark, fashionable clothes reflected in a scrubbed-clean white formica table. But oh, Aziraphale loved him like this. Anthony Crowley was like a hothouse flower in January or a ring studded with stones all down the band— pure extravagance. Far too grand for this little town. And yet here he was, once more, in Aziraphale’s company. 

Crowley ordered coffee, and Aziraphale the pie, which was normal for them. Crowley never ate much himself, but he had the oddest way of watching Aziraphale eat, tracking every little movement with those golden eyes. Aziraphale had refrained from ever asking about it, because sometimes a little smile would steal onto Crowley’s face, especially if Aziraphale was enjoying a dessert, and that smile was a rare enough thing that Aziraphale didn't want to risk scaring it away.

“So what’s new?” Crowley asked, stirring sugar into his coffee. The spoon made a little clinking noise that was nearly lost in the hum of chatter around them.

“I have a bit of traveling to do next month,” Aziraphale said. “There’s a conference in Aberdeen and of course, no money in the budget for a flight or train.”

Crowley sat up straighter, which was a tell that he was concerned. “Angel, you can’t take coaches all the way to Aberdeen.” He frowned. “I haven’t been to Scotland in a while. I can get us a flight.”

Aziraphale barely avoided accidentally inhaling his next bite of pie. “Us? Crowley— it’s a whole week of library meetings. You’ll be bored out of your mind.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “There’s other things to do.”

Aziraphale continued to stare at him. “But— you can’t just take a week off from work with so little notice. Can you?”

Aziraphale and Crowley had a little game that they played when the subject of Crowley’s work came up. They said one thing, but communicated another through nonverbal means. The look Crowley gave Aziraphale was rather haughty, by which Crowley probably meant to convey that he was highly placed enough in his organization to take off whenever he damn well pleased. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows— _Are you sure, dear? Your employers don’t seem the forgiving type._ To this Crowley folded his arms and scowled, doubling down on his assertion. 

What he _said_ was: “Got some vacation saved up.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale looked down at his pie. There was of course another, rather larger problem with this plan: spending an entire week with the object of his unrequited love sounded equally marvelous and torturous.

Crowley apparently took his silence for agreement. “I’ll make a reservation in the hotel,” he announced. “Grab a room near yours.”

If Aziraphale felt disappointed by the knowledge that there would be no sharing of a hotel room, as painful as that would no doubt be, he tried not to show it. Of course, the hotel where the conference was being held was not likely to have any free rooms so close to the event, but the look Crowley gave him now was clearly meant to assure Aziraphale that Crowley had means of making a reservation whenever and wherever he liked.

“All right,” Aziraphale found himself saying, with a smile. “That’s very kind of you.”

Crowley, as expected, ignored that sentiment entirely, and focused back on Aziraphale and his pie.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley showed up outside Aziraphale’s cottage on the appointed morning, just as snow began to fall. He was dressed in his customary black and looked cold. Aziraphale couldn’t help beaming at him, and then brought something out from behind his back.

Crowley looked at him in surprise. “You got me a scarf?”

“I _made_ you a scarf.” Aziraphale reached up to wind the long, soft length of it several times around Crowley’s neck.

Crowley’s voice was slightly muffled. “It’s white.”

“You needed something lighter, dear. It is cashmere, though, so I trust it still goes with your aesthetic.” Aziraphale adjusted the ostentatiously tasseled ends of the scarf and then looked up at Crowley. Crowley’s eyebrows were high on his forehead, almost up to his red hair. Lacy snow flakes were landing on his dark shoulders, but were lost immediately against the white scarf. “Happy almost Christmas,” Aziraphale said softly. “And thank you for coming with me.”

“No— no trouble,” Crowley said, and thrust forward what he was holding— a travel mug full of tea and a boxed cinnamon roll, still warm.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said in a delighted voice.

Crowley hefted Aziraphale’s suitcase into the back of the Bentley. As he climbed into the car, he loosened the scarf a bit, but didn’t remove it. “It’s warm,” he said, almost too softly for Aziraphale to hear him. Aziraphale smiled into his cup of tea.

It was lightly snowing at the airport on the south coast of England. But, as they learned mid-flight, it was quite a different story farther north. The conditions in Aberdeen were apparently so bad that the plane was diverted to Edinburgh.

Crowley took the news in stride, with a typical shrug of his shoulders, and they rented a car to make the end of the trip. At first, the weather wasn’t overly concerning. The snow was fairly light, more of something pleasant to look at than anything that would affect the roads. The sky was clouded, but bright, and the pavement collected just a dusting of snow, like powdered sugar on a holiday biscuit.

But as the time passed, conditions reversed: the sky grew darker and the road lighter. By the time the pavement was completely covered with snow, Aziraphale could read Crowley’s anxiety with ease— because he slowed down the car. The wind picked up as well, rocking the car out of rhythm with the music Crowley had playing in the background.

Aziraphale and Crowley kept talking as if nothing was wrong, though. Aziraphale was expounding on research he’d read on Bram Stoker’s _Dracula—_ Crowley did like horror novels— the first time the car started to skid. Crowley handled it well, not fighting the wheels too hard in their skating. But when the car twisted even more violently sideways just a few minutes later, Aziraphale found himself holding his breath until Crowley got it back under control. 

Crowley shot him a glance. “You all right?”

“Yes, of course. But perhaps—”

Crowley nodded. “Perhaps we ought to finish the drive in the morning. There’s a little town coming up. We can stop there. I’m sorry, angel.”

“It’s hardly your fault, my dear. Thank you for getting us this far.”

Crowley didn't say anything to that. He took the next off ramp— carefully— and they found themselves in the tiny business area of a cozy little town. There looked to be one pub that held a few rooms. Crowley pulled slowly into the carpark, which was nearly full, probably with other people making the same decision they had. The pavement was covered in snowy tire tracks, and the rented car took a more meandering route than it was meant to, as its wheels passed through snow that pointed in different directions.

When they’d finally parked, Crowley said, “Be careful getting out. I’ll get the suitcases—”

“I can handle my own suitcase,” Aziraphale objected, opening the door, and that was the last thing he remembered before he found himself lying on the ground looking up at a very worried Crowley.

It was cold, Aziraphale realized. Even here on the pavement between all the cars, the wind was terrible, and the wet snow was already soaking into his clothes from underneath.

“Are you hurt?” Crowley asked. He didn’t help Aziraphale up, instead running his hands over Aziraphale’s body— shoulders, arms, and legs. When he got to Aziraphale’s left knee, Aziraphale let out a hiss. 

“Banged it on the car, I think,” Aziraphale said. “Or maybe the ground.”

“All right. We’re getting you inside.” Crowley put an arm behind Aziraphale’s shoulders and helped him to stand, and then supported him as he limped awkwardly into the pub.

Inside, Aziraphale sat in a chair, still feeling a little dazed, as Crowley worked out the rooms with the woman at the bar. Crowley went back for the suitcases, and then they made it to the lift. Aziraphale was more himself by then, enough to feel like a complete idiot, but that awkwardness was nothing compared to the moment he realized that Crowley was holding only one key.

“They’ve only got the one room left,” Crowley said, sounding apologetic.

Aziraphale said, “Oh,” but the faint way he said it must have worried Crowley because Crowley stopped looking ill at ease and looked determined again.

He helped Aziraphale down the hall to the room, managing both him and two suitcases. Aziraphale was sitting on the bed almost before he realized it, and Crowley immediately opened Aziraphale’s case and started rifling through it. “Need to get you out of those wet clothes,” he said. “Get you warmed up.”

But Aziraphale was having another rather desperate realization. “Crowley— this is a single room.” It was, in fact, perhaps the smallest bedroom Aziraphale had ever been in. There was a bed, a side table, and a little floor space for suitcases. The bathroom looked hardly large enough for a shower.

Crowley did not look up from his pawing through Aziraphale’s jumpers. “All they had,” he reminded him.

“Right.”

Crowley handed Aziraphale some clothes and pointed him toward the bathroom. “And I want to take a look at that knee once you’ve changed.”

It almost— _almost_ looked like Crowley was blushing at this point, but it was hard to tell in the dim room light.

The bathroom was cramped, and Aziraphale’s shoes tracked in muddy water, which he cleaned up with a cloth. He could hear Crowley moving about outside the door, but Aziraphale took a moment to try to gather his wits, looking at himself in the small round mirror. His hair was a mess of curls and his cheeks quite red, partly with cold, partly with emotion.

The excitement of spending a day traveling with Crowley had turned to deep embarrassment. Rather than a flight followed by a late dinner somewhere and then a night apart, Aziraphale was cold, wet, hungry, and injured, in the wrong city, and facing a night sharing a room with his secret crush in which there was only one bed. And— Aziraphale looked down at what he was holding. Flannel pajamas, tartan ones. He was going to have to go back out there and face the ever-elegant Crowley in his night clothes.

What did Crowley wear to bed? Aziraphale suddenly wondered, and had to put a stop to that thought as quickly as he could. Except— in an hour or so, he was probably going to find out.

“Oh, good lord,” he whispered.

When Aziraphale was halfway through changing, he heard a knock on the room door and then Crowley speaking to someone. As soon as Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom, he could smell food, and his stomach growled.

“They brought up some dinner,” Crowley said, speaking not to Aziraphale, but to the tray of food. He paused for a moment, almost like he was gathering himself, before looking up.

Aziraphale felt even more ashamed for having worried Crowley to the point where he was so concerned about his injury that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at it. “My knee is fine,” he assured him. “Just bruised.”

Crowley’s eyes were moving slowly over Aziraphale in his tartan flannel, starting at his socked feet and climbing up his body. That apparent flush to his cheeks was still there. “Knee, yeah,” Crowley said softly. Then he blinked. “Right, your knee. Sit down, angel, let me see.”

“You don’t need to make a fuss,” Aziraphale instructed, but it was no use. He sat on the bed, and Crowley crouched before him, in the little bit of space there was. Crowley’s fingers were cold against Aziraphale’s ankle, and the chill of them climbed slowly up Aziraphale’s calf as Crowley raised the loose leg of the pajamas. Aziraphale was breathing quite quickly by the time his knee was revealed, and he was glad Crowley was focused there and not on his face. Or, to be perfectly frank, his lap. Crowley kneeling in front of him, not to mention touching him, was a bit too close to a few of those _imaginings_ that Aziraphale indulged in after his failed dates.

Aziraphale winced as Crowley pressed gently on his knee, but Crowley seemed relieved. “Just bruised, yeah,” he said. “But you’ve got to be freezing. Under the covers with you.”

Aziraphale protested, but Crowley paid him no mind, moving away to prop pillows up for Aziraphale to lean on. When he’d gotten Aziraphale settled, Crowley perched on the other side of the bed, above the covers. 

Dinner was pies and a little plate of shortbread for Aziraphale. It was all as pleasant as might be expected under the circumstances, except that Aziraphale did not seem to feel much warmer. And then he noticed Crowley was shivering.

“Is the heater not working?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head, looking apologetic, as if all of this were somehow his fault. “It can’t keep up, not with this wind and the place so full. They told me when I checked in. It’s okay, angel, I’ll just get my coat.” He gave Aziraphale a smile. “I’ve got a scarf now, too, you know, even if it does clash with my clothes.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Well, why don’t you just climb into the bed—”

When that sentence ran aground, they were stuck just looking at each other. They did have some experience talking without talking, and Aziraphale could read the hesitation on Crowley’s face. He had no idea what Crowley was seeing from him, though. How bare were Aziraphale’s emotions at the moment? Could Crowley see past the embarrassment and worry to the heavy weight of desire? Could he sense Aziraphale’s nearly overpowering need to clutch Crowley close, pull the covers over both of them, and make their own warmth?

Or maybe, just the desire to care for Crowley like Crowley always did for him?

“We can share,” Aziraphale said, softly. Crowley’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead again, but he didn’t move, either toward Aziraphale or away. Aziraphale sighed. “What else were you going to do, Crowley, sleep on the floor?”

“I can,” Crowley said.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The bed is big enough for two.”

But still, Crowley hesitated. Aziraphale started to get a sort of prickling feeling at the base of his neck. There didn’t seem to be any disgust on Crowley’s face, but Aziraphale began to wonder if maybe there was another reason Crowley didn’t want to share the bed. Aziraphale knew the tartan pajamas weren’t his best look, but could it really be so bad that— 

Outside, the wind howled and slammed into the window, making it rattle. Aziraphale shivered, and either that or the noise seemed to break Crowley’s trance. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Don’t want you getting cold, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded gratefully. “Right.”

Crowley dug through his suitcase a moment and then headed toward the bathroom. Aziraphale started to get up so that he could tidy the dinner trash, but Crowley fixed him with a look. “Stay in bed. I’ll sort it.”

So while he was gone, Aziraphale was left with nothing else to do but to think about what Crowley would be wearing when he came out of the bathroom. He found himself both relieved and disappointed that Crowley apparently did not sleep in the nude.

At least, in winter. But might he sleep in the nude in sum— 

That dangerous line of thinking was interrupted by Crowley returning, dressed in— of course— black silk pajamas. They hung elegantly on his thin frame, covering his long lines in a rich darkness. Where the collar gaped open, there was a pale triangle of Crowley’s skin visible. And his feet were bare. Aziraphale suddenly wasn’t sure why he had been expecting that he would get any sleep tonight, tucked into bed with the most tempting man he’d ever seen.

Crowley said nothing, he just started cleaning up the mess they’d made. Aziraphale had been to Crowley’s flat in London, and knew that Crowley liked things neat. Aziraphale’s cottage was not anything like that— it was clean enough, but cluttered with books and mugs and photographs, and somewhere in there Aziraphale knew he had to have an epic collection of pens because he kept buying new ones and immediately losing them— and now, oh god, Anthony J. Crowley was climbing into bed with him.

Crowley did it quickly, looking down as he slipped himself beneath the covers. Aziraphale was not a small person, but Crowley really was quite thin, and there was just enough room that they didn’t have to touch. Aziraphale reached over and flicked off the light switch. 

The dark was total for a moment before Aziraphale’s eyes adjusted, so he was left to his other senses. The wind still howled and shook the window frame, but beneath that now was the soft sound of Crowley breathing right beside him. And there was just a touch of warmth stealing across the space between them. To Aziraphale that heat seemed like the glow of a lantern in the dark of night, promising a place of safety and comfort— promising home.

Aziraphale turned away from Crowley and tried to go to sleep.

oOo

When Aziraphale woke, he’d forgotten it all. The storm, the injury, the pub. Forgotten the entire trip. There was nothing on his mind but Crowley, the knowledge that he was near, that he was warm, that his body was exactly the mix of soft and strong that Aziraphale had expected him to be. Crowley’s hair was silken against Aziraphale’s forehead, his skin supple and smelling of some luxurious lotion, but his body was all angles and lines. Feeling him pressed up against the places where Aziraphale was plush and cushioned felt right in a way that Aziraphale had never experienced before with a lover. It was like they were made to fit together.

It was a lovely dream. It was less lovely, in between one contented breath and the next, to realize it was not a dream. No shrill screeching of an alarm could have jolted Aziraphale awake more harshly than this. His body was flooded with cold fear, and as he scrambled backwards, he twisted his knee a little and pain rushed through his leg. Shaking, Aziraphale raised his eyes to Crowley’s face.

Crowley was awake. His golden eyes were wide in the darkness, still so close to Aziraphale’s. They weren’t touching now, but it was a near thing, with Aziraphale practically falling off of his end of the bed.

A wave of shame rose up in Aziraphale. God, what kind of a friend was he? Not only had he wrapped Crowley in his arms, but, he immediately realized, he’d been aroused while doing it— was still aroused, and he didn’t have a clue how to apologize.

He was startled to hear Crowley do it first. “Sorry, angel, I’m—” Crowley looked nearly as wrecked as Aziraphale felt. His breaths were coming in gasps, and his eyes wouldn’t stay fixed on Aziraphale’s face.

“My fault entirely,” Aziraphale rushed to say. 

“No. No, you were asleep. You were cold. I was the one—” Crowley’s body seemed to twitch a little and then he froze. 

It had been, Aziraphale noticed, a particular kind of twitching, appearing to originate in the hips.

Aziraphale’s eyes fell to the blanket that covered them. He couldn’t see anything beneath it, but Crowley seemed to feel him looking, and he twitched again, and then groaned.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale whispered.

“Fuck,” Crowley said, very quietly. 

Aziraphale felt warmer now— and harder— than he’d ever been in his life. He wanted to throw off the blankets and see Crowley in those black silk trousers, which, if his wild imagining could be right, might now be tenting over his cock.

“Listen,” Crowley said, “if you just give me a minute, I’ll— take a mental cold shower. Fuck, I should take a real cold shower—”

“Don’t.” Aziraphale said.

Crowley twitched a little again, helplessly, as he looked at Aziraphale in shock. “Angel—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s—” 

“It is.” Aziraphale tried to calm his shaking voice. “Uh, that is, if you— if it is you. I mean, or is it just because I— because I was aroused?”

Crowley stared at him with wide eyes. “You’re hard?”

“You didn’t notice?”

“Had my own problems.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded. “So, then it’s not—”

Crowley looked haunted, heartbroken. “Angel, I’m desperate for you. Did you not know?”

“You—” _You said you couldn’t love,_ Aziraphale thought. But this wasn’t love, was it? It was desire, hot and hard, and it filled Aziraphale to overflowing. 

“I need you,” Aziraphale said, and it was perhaps the most truthful thing he’d ever said to anyone.

Crowley let out a whimpering sound, and then they were pressed together, with Crowley’s hand behind Aziraphale’s head, pulling him in hard so that they could kiss. It was immediately deep and hungry and frantic, and while their tongues tangled, their arms and legs did the same. 

Kissing Crowley was exactly as Aziraphale had imagined it— hot, delicious, and overwhelming. Aziraphale didn’t even notice any pain from his knee. All sensation was lost, except that of Crowley. And Crowley _was_ hard, gloriously hard, and long.

“Crowley, let me see you,” Aziraphale begged, and the sheets and blankets immediately found themselves covering what little floor space there was. Crowley was visible then in all his glory, mouth swollen, flame-red hair mussed, in nothing but black silk pajamas, and they didn’t conceal much, not anymore.

“Off, please,” Aziraphale said, pulling at the fabric, and Crowley hastened to comply, tossing his clothes over the edge of the bed as well. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “You’re incredible.” And god, he was, somehow more elegant stark naked than he’d ever been clothed. His cock rose strong and straight, and flushed dark.

Crowley made a disbelieving sort of noise, but he just tugged at Aziraphale’s sleeve. “Fair play, angel. Strip.”

Aziraphale’s fingers started eagerly on the buttons of his flannel shirt, but then he paused. “I don’t look like you,” he said softly.

Crowley snorted. “Good thing I don’t want to fuck myself then.” He reached for Aziraphale, and between the two of them, Aziraphale’s clothes were soon tossed aside as well. Aziraphale found himself naked on his back, gazing up at a very handsome, very aroused man, who was looking at Aziraphale like he was the most enticing thing he’d ever seen.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said softly. “Look at you.” His hips twitched again, the movement visible for what it was now, a helpless thrusting, and he groaned. “How do you want this?”

“I want you to ride me,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, in a strangled voice. “Yeah, okay.” He was gone from the bed suddenly, and Aziraphale realized he was going through his suitcase.

“You brought lube?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley came back, uncapping a half-full bottle. “Wasn’t going to make the week sleeping in a room near yours without needing to see to myself. Especially if I was going to watch you eat.” He gave Aziraphale a look that was equally amused and incredulous. “Honestly, angel, I’ve no idea how you missed this.”

Aziraphale couldn’t reply, he couldn’t do anything but watch as Crowley reached behind himself and slid a finger inside. “Didn’t— didn’t bring condoms,” Crowley said, “but I’m clean, got tested—”

“Yes. Me too.”

Crowley dropped his head back with a moan as he worked his finger in farther, and his cock dribbled a little precome. Aziraphale reached for him, but Crowley shook his head. “I’m too close. Watch those hands, angel.”

Aziraphale compromised by running his fingers lightly up Crowley’s legs, sliding against his smooth skin, unable to avoid urging him closer. Crowley was up to two fingers now, and Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s leg muscles working under his palm. This was easily the hottest thing Aziraphale had ever seen, this gorgeous man with his eyes closed in pleasure, hurriedly working himself open for Aziraphale’s cock. 

Aziraphale groaned. “Crowley, please.”

“Yeah.” Crowley gasped a little, and the minute he removed his fingers, Aziraphale pulled him on top of himself. 

Aziraphale’s tongue lapped up the beads of sweat on Crowley’s throat, and his hands slid up his thighs to clutch at that gloriously taut arse. Crowley fell forward a little more and then they were kissing, as desperately and deeply as before. Aziraphale’s hands tangled in Crowley’s hair and then a second later went back to his arse, kneading at him, pulling his cheeks apart, and then to the jut of his hipbones, the stiff rise of his cock— 

“Angel, just fuck me,” Crowley growled, and his hand closed around Aziraphale’s cock, slicking him with lube. As Aziraphale spread his legs, Crowley moved his hips forward and then sat back, taking Aziraphale’s prick into his arse in a slow slide. 

“Yes,” Crowley moaned. Aziraphale could only gasp. Crowley paused a moment, and then he started to move, working himself up and down on Aziraphale’s shaft. 

Aziraphale reached around to feel Crowley’s arse as it stretched for him. “Oh, fuck, Crowley. You feel so— god, you’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah.” Crowley started moving a little faster. “Fuck. It’s never felt like this, never. Angel, touch me, please.”

Aziraphale immediately wrapped a hand around Crowley’s cock, pumping the length of him. 

“Oh, shit,” Crowley gasped out, and he fell forward a bit, bracing himself on his hands and rolling his hips against Aziraphale’s. His eyes closed and Aziraphale stared up at his flushed, wrecked expression. 

“Do it,” Crowley whispered. “Do it, angel, I can take it, I need it—” He knocked Aziraphale’s hand away and started fisting his own cock, so Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s hips and pulled him back onto his prick. Crowley cried out, and Aziraphale started to fuck him properly, hard and fast. 

Crowley’s expression changed to one of ruin, then rapture, and just as he came all over Aziraphale’s chest, Aziraphale spilled himself into his arse. They worked themselves together for another frantic, ecstatic moment, and then Crowley collapsed on top of him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “Crowley, Crowley—” Their mouths found each other again, and Crowley was kissing him hungrily, pressing him into the mattress. 

Aziraphale didn’t fall back to sleep for hours.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Crowley was gone. Aziraphale woke up alone, and immediately reassured himself that Crowley was probably just downstairs getting breakfast.

Aziraphale climbed out of the bed that smelled like himself, Crowley, and sex. He showered, reluctantly washing Crowley’s scent off of his own skin, and then dressed quickly, mindful of his sore knee. Actually, there were other parts of his anatomy that were just as sore this morning if not more, especially his arse— but none of it mattered as much as the mental anguish that continued to rise up in him like steam in the shower, fogging up every other thought.

They hadn’t discussed anything last night. There had been no dreamy, sweet pillow talk as they fell asleep all warm and tangled up. Instead it seemed that at some point they must have just passed out from physical and sexual exhaustion. The last thing Aziraphale remembered was Crowley cleaning him gently with a damp cloth and pressing kisses against his forehead. There had been no words spoken.

Still alone, Aziraphale tidied the room, locked up his suitcase, and then looked through the window to the town beyond. The storm had blown itself out and the day was clear, the sky a distant blue. It was cold, though, Aziraphale could feel that through the glass, and in the lingering chill of the room. Well, soon enough they’d check out of the pub and get back on their way. They’d have one last stretch of time in the car before Aberdeen, and surely at that point they’d talk.

Except Aziraphale had no idea what he would say.

He’d honestly never expected to have the opportunity to sleep with Crowley— in the literal or sexual sense. Crowley wasn’t interested, Aziraphale had been sure of that. Whatever it was that Aziraphale was supposed to have noticed in Crowley’s behavior, he must have explained away. When he thought back on it, yes, perhaps there was more to Crowley’s watching him eat than Aziraphale had thought. Maybe Crowley’s habit of walking slightly behind him through the library stacks could have given him the chance to check out Aziraphale’s arse. Maybe his expression when Aziraphale wrapped the scarf around his neck— ok, yes, Aziraphale had been oblivious. But now that he’d gotten started thinking along this line, he wondered if there might be more to it.

Crowley routinely driving back and forth all the way from London just to see him for an evening? Returning to the library so many times in those first few months? Always giving Aziraphale presents and treats, scowling at the mention of Aziraphale’s dates, escorting him to this conference— it seemed that maybe Crowley actually felt something stronger for Aziraphale than desire. Was it possible that Crowley loved him? Crowley had said he couldn’t, wouldn’t love anyone, and yet— 

The door to the room finally creaked open and Aziraphale turned around, his heart pounding. It had been too long of a wait to see Crowley this morning, and yet it also felt like he was back far too soon.

Crowley was carrying a tray of food and coffee that smelled wonderful.

He didn’t look at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale felt his hunger immediately evaporate.

“Hey, ang— Aziraphale,” Crowley said, to the food again. “Got you a proper Scottish breakfast.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale’s voice was a tiny, frightened thing.

Crowley finally stole a glance at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale nearly gasped. Crowley looked terrible, his eyes reddened and skin pale. Like he hadn’t slept at all last night. Like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Listen,” Crowley said. “I’ve got to step out, return a phone call. Missed it while I was getting breakfast.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, just business.” Crowley picked up one of the cups of coffee and disappeared back through the door.

Aziraphale took his own coffee and made himself drink it. 

He did not make himself step away from the door to prevent eavesdropping.

Crowley sounded agitated on the phone. “I said no,” he snapped. “Not here.” There was a pause. “I don’t care about that. I’m not here on business, Hastur. If you want a meeting, send somebody else—” Another pause. “Because I’ve got a _complication_ here! You know that.”

Crowley fell quiet, but Aziraphale could hear him pacing back and forth. Finally, he made a growling noise, sounding more menacing than Aziraphale had ever heard him. Aziraphale nearly flinched. “I’ll take it up with Beez, then,” Crowley spat. “Yeah, fuck you too.”

It was a few minutes before Crowley came back in, and when he did, he concentrated on packing up his suitcase. Neither of them ate any breakfast.

oOo

The end of the drive to Aberdeen was actually pleasant, in a way. There were no heated words or arguments, desperate apologies, or begging. Instead the two of them completely ignored everything that had happened between them the night before. 

It was a form of torture nonetheless. Aziraphale watched the morning sun playing over Crowley’s skin, and realized that he himself had brought warmth to that skin last night, when the sun was absent and everything was cold. He listened to Crowley chatter on about sports or something, knowing now what Crowley’s voice sounded like in breathless wanting, in desperate encouragement, in ecstasy. But it didn’t matter. It was useless knowledge. The night had vanished like it had been nothing but a dream after all.

It seemed that Crowley had been truthful about love all those years ago. _People get stuck dreaming of a perfect life with a perfect person,_ he’d said. _But reality can never measure up._

If Crowley did love him, then Aziraphale seemed not to measure up. Instead, he was a _complication._

Crowley had managed to get them separate rooms at the conference hotel. He made sure that Aziraphale was settled, as solicitous as ever, but as soon as the programming started, Crowley disappeared.

That night, when Aziraphale got back to his room, his phone pinged with a text.

_Aziraphale— I’m sorry, I’ve been called to work. Give me a call when you get home._

Crowley was gone.

oOo

Aziraphale finished the conference and flew home as scheduled. He did not call Crowley. Crowley did call him, twice, and sent texts. Aziraphale did not answer.

For the first few days, Aziraphale tried to think of the situation as if it was just another failed date. So he hadn’t hit it off with Crowley. So he’d keep looking.

The next few days, Aziraphale ate a lot of chocolate and cried constantly. After that, he threw himself into his work, hardly leaving the library for a week.

And then it was almost Christmas, and Aziraphale was tired. He went home, took a hot bath, then cleaned his cottage and put up his Christmas tree. He hung a wreath on his door. He put the presents he’d gotten for Crowley— a book of Shakespeare’s comedies and a set of wine glasses with stems formed of twisting glass snakes— into the closet. Then he took them out again and wrapped them. Then he put them back into the closet. And then he picked up his knitting needles.

Because somewhere amidst the tears and frantic work and rushing madly from the extremes of anger and regret to visions of a joyful reunion, Aziraphale had found himself sitting wearily on a sort of middle ground. He simply missed Crowley. He missed his company, missed three years of friendship. Surely a close relationship like that deserved one more chance? It surely deserved more than Aziraphale refusing Crowley’s calls.

Aziraphale finished his knitting on the 23rd. On Christmas Eve he got into his little white car and drove to London.

The radio played Christmas music all the way through the countryside, into the city, and through to Mayfair. Aziraphale managed to find a parking space, but he felt oddly out of place as he climbed out of his car. Everyone on the street seemed to be in groups. No one was alone except for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale climbed the steps to Crowley’s flat, and walked down the hallway, one set of shoes echoing themselves. It took him another few moments to find the final courage he needed, and then he raised his hand to knock on the door.

Before he could, it opened.

For a second, Aziraphale thought he’d interrupted a guest leaving Crowley’s flat. And then he realized he was looking at Crowley himself— you couldn’t mistake that flame-red hair— but he seemed to be wearing some strange disguise: blue jeans, a brown jumper, and around his neck, a hand-knit white scarf.

“Angel,” Crowley said, in shock. His face blazed as brightly as his hair. “I was just leaving to— I was coming to see you.”

“What on earth are you wearing?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked down at himself. “Oh, uh— new look. I, um— I quit my job.”

“What?”

Crowley stepped back. “Look, come in, will you? Sorry the place is a mess.”

(For the record, there were a few dirty dishes in the sink. Otherwise, the flat was as spotless as ever.)

Neither of them sat down, although Aziraphale took off his coat. Crowley paced back and forth, stealing a glance at Aziraphale every few steps. “I was going to rehearse this on the drive,” he said. 

“I rehearsed mine,” Aziraphale offered. “Of course, I didn’t expect you to have, um, changed.”

“Well,” Crowley said, frowning. “Still me. I just— I couldn’t— if you and I— oh fuck.”

Aziraphale sighed and set down the shiny green gift bag that held his knitting. “We fucked this up,” he said. “The both of us.”

Crowley shook his head. “No. No, it was me. I’m the one who left.”

“Why did you?”

“To protect you.”

Aziraphale was certain that there was only one threat that Crowley would think required his absence rather than his presence. “They wanted you to work in Aberdeen,” Aziraphale said. “Your employers.”

Crowley looked wrecked. “Angel, that morning, I woke up with you and it was— it was _everything._ I’m not sure if you want to hear that, sorry. But it was, for me. You in my arms in that freezing room. I don’t think I’ve ever been so warm. But there were missed texts on my phone, and a call— and I couldn’t stay. You shouldn’t get close to what I do.”

“But you work in my town all the time,” Aziraphale protested. “I know you have contacts there.”

This made Crowley laugh, and it looked as beautiful on him as ever. “Angel— of course I don’t. It’s far too small. I only work in the larger cities.”

“But you were always there for work.”

“I was there for you.” Crowley stopped pacing finally and let his eyes fall on Aziraphale. “I was driving through your town and thought I’d stop for lunch. I saw you at the cafe, through the window. God, you were— you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I knew I shouldn’t, but I followed you back to the library anyway. Aziraphale—” He took a shaky breath. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the beginning. I know I said I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. And that was true. Because I knew I would never be remotely good enough for you. I would never measure up. And so I was protecting myself from heartbreak, protecting us, our friendship. But then— in that room in the pub, you were in my arms, and it was— it was _paradise.”_

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, mussing it, and then started waving his hands in space, as though he was trying to paint Aziraphale a clearer picture. “But I don’t belong in paradise. That’s the thing. I’m— I’m the serpent in the garden. Dangerous. Going to wreck it all. And that’s exactly what I did,” he said, nodding. “I wrecked it. But then somewhere, somehow, one night, I thought, _what if?_ What if I could change? What if I wasn’t the— the demon, the bad guy? Maybe then I could be in the garden. I could convince you, maybe, to let me stay, let me try to show you the way it could be— So I tried. Am trying. This is me, trying. I quit my job.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “But I love you as you are.”

Crowley stared at him, words and hand gestures failing him. 

“Oh, come now,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t tell me you didn’t know.”

Crowley pointed at him. “No, no, no. You don’t.”

Aziraphale made an annoyed noise. “I do.”

“Then why do you date other guys?” Crowley exclaimed.

“You mean, why did I start unsuccessfully dating other guys as soon as you told me you couldn’t love me?”

Crowley fell still again. “Oh.”

“You’re oblivious,” Aziraphale accused gently.

Crowley scowled at him. “No worse than you.”

“No.” Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, Crowley. But you enjoyed your job so much, didn’t you?”

Crowley’s mouth twisted a little. “I did. Co-workers not withstanding.”

“Well, then you should get it back.”

Crowley groaned. “No. No, don’t you see? You’re an _angel—”_

“Who’s in love with a demon.” Aziraphale took a hesitant step closer to him. “Darling, I agree with you about that night. It _was_ paradise. It will be paradise as long as you’re with me.”

“But—”

Aziraphale reached into the bag he’d brought, and pulled out Crowley’s new gift. “You idiot. Just see what I brought you as a peace offering.”

“You made me another scarf,” Crowley said softly.

Aziraphale nodded. “Take off the one you’re wearing. Go on.”

Crowley obeyed, and stayed still as Aziraphale wound the new one around his neck. 

“It’s black,” Crowley said.

“Crowley, I drove up here to tell you that I miss you. That I didn’t want to be without you. Even if it was just as friends.” Aziraphale looked up into Crowley’s golden eyes, which were still widened in surprise. “But oh, my darling— I love everything about you, especially the way you stand out in my town with your black clothes and fancy car and job no one will speak of. You’re far too glamorous and dangerous and mysterious for us, and I love you for it. And— and I wanted to say I’m sorry, and that if you were willing, maybe we could still— we could still be friends?” Aziraphale felt his breath hitch a little on that last bit, and he concentrated on trying not to cry.

“I want to be friends,” Crowley said. “I want to be more than friends.”

Aziraphale was crying now anyway. “Crowley. Take off those ridiculous clothes.”

A bit of a smirk flashed across Crowley’s face, shaky though it was. “And then?”

“And then don’t you dare put anything else back on.”

Crowley’s expression grew more heated. He picked up the abandoned white scarf and draped it around Aziraphale’s shoulders, then tugged on it, pulling Aziraphale forward until they were so close that Aziraphale could feel the heat of Crowley’s body stealing across the scant space that separated them.

“Just so long as you,” Crowley said, “don’t wear anything more than _this_ scarf for the next twenty-four hours. Don’t worry, angel, I’ll keep you warm.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are so appreciated! And please feel free to check out my other works. I write Good Omens and original fiction.  
> Find me on my [Carrd](https://dannyechase.carrd.co//) and my [Linktree](https://linktr.ee/DannyeChase)  
>   
>   
> If you liked this Good Omens human AU, here are my others:  
> [Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088422) (nurse Aziraphale, florist Crowley)  
> [The Poet's Eye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24458608) (poet Aziraphale, firefighter Crowley)  
> [A Greenwood Tree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26617891) (Ineffable wives Robin Hood AU with Aziraphale as Marian and Crowley as Robin)  
> [The Wrong Side of the Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27048544) (a spooky AU with Aziraphale and Crowley as paranormal investigators)  
> and [The Pocket Watch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645601) (jeweler Aziraphale, jewel thief Crowley)
> 
> And on my Tumblr, you can find [giant lists of other writers' completed Good Omens human AUs](https://holycatsandrabbits.tumblr.com/search/Dannye's%20GO%20Human%20AU%20rec%20lists)


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